


A Matter of Trust

by Devi_the_Wynter_Wytch



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Size Kink, Unsafe Sex, Virgin Sherlock, brief allusion to rape of OMC, references to pegging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 07:57:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15287169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devi_the_Wynter_Wytch/pseuds/Devi_the_Wynter_Wytch
Summary: When he was in medical school, a practical joke gone horribly wrong (or right as the case may be) caused John to develop a keen interest in his prostate.  It is something he kept well-hidden due to the stigma associated with any hint of bisexuality, particularly in the military.  He is still self-conscious about it, and it is the one secret he has managed to keep hidden from Sherlock—that is until Sherlock walks in on an oblivious John and sees a lot more than John ever intended.





	1. Preparations Must Be Made

**Author's Note:**

> Author: Devi the Wynter Wytch
> 
> Pairings: Sherlock/John, some references to past John/Mary and John/OFCs; vague reference, if you squint, to Mycroft/Anthea
> 
> Rating: E for consensual, rather graphic male/male sexual relations. This is rated E for a very good reason, and I cannot stress this enough. This is likely the most pornographic thing I have ever written.
> 
> Status: Complete...4 chapters total
> 
> Length: short story
> 
> Word count: 11,062
> 
> Timeline: This story begins approximately six months after the conclusion of The Final Problem. I’ve set it in mid-December of that same year.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters or the universe created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in which I now play. I reap no financial rewards from writing fan fiction. I do this solely for my own pleasure and, hopefully, feedback.
> 
> Speaking of Feedback, Yes, please! This is my second foray into The Sherlock Universe of fan fiction and my very first attempt at a PWP, so any feedback you care to give is helpful. However, please be fair with your feedback. Constructive criticism is appreciated. Flames are not. Please do not read this story if slash offends your sensibilities and then send scathing criticism.
> 
> Additional Notes:  
> This started out as a shameless PWP—just because I’ve never written one before. Somewhere along the line, I think some plot snuck in when I wasn’t looking—okay, I admit it, a lot of plot. I think this is actually a short story with smut—lots of smut. I failed! Does that mean I have to try again with the PWP thing?
> 
> I am going largely by canon as it is portrayed in the four seasons of BBC shows spanning 2010 to 2017 as aired in the U.S. on Netflix with supplemental information from the writings of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle as I remember them. 
> 
> Beta Extraordinaire: The amazing and talented NeuroticKitten who agreed to beta this complete smutfest. What were you thinking?!
> 
> Brit Picker: I now have a Brit Picker; thank you BritWitch. She thought she could trip me up on the crisps, but I got that one. LOL I have no doubts that she will catch me up eventually. It’s only a matter of time.

**A Matter of Trust**

 

 

Chapter 1: Preparations Must be Made

The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. John stared at the small, neatly wrapped package in non-descript, cheap, brown, recycled paper. Only the return address: RD Enterprises, San Marcos, California, USA gave John any indication of exactly what it was he was holding in his slightly trembling left hand.

Anticipation was killing him. He flushed scarlet, grateful for the privacy his small office afforded and inordinately glad that he had had the foresight to have the package delivered to his medical office rather than to the flat at 221B Baker Street, which he shared with Sherlock Holmes, moody mad genius and human bloodhound extraordinaire.

He bit his lip nervously and contemplated whether to open the package immediately or wait until he got back to the flat this evening. A moment of thought and the better, more cautious angels of John’s nature won that battle. With clammy hands that he hurriedly wiped on his sensible, gray, wrinkle-free khakis, he tucked the inoffensive little package into his desk drawer.

As the assistant medical director in charge of supplies at one of the three London clinics that catered to veterans, no one would question the delivery. On most days, John loved his new job. He had only been here four months, but he was already settled in. He admired his colleagues and their support staff, respected his patients, and had built a solid rapport with both. He was doing important and fulfilling work. His position allowed him to both see patients as well as oversee general patient care. He had ostensibly gotten the job on his own, but he still had niggling suspicions that Mycroft had had a hand in getting John this job, one that provided him with a higher income and very flexible working hours. Both were important to insure he could meet the needs of his daughter, Rosie, who he was raising alone since Mary’s death, and Sherlock, who, on any given day, John was also, ostensibly, raising single-handedly.

Sherlock, who frequently displayed the emotional maturity of a bored two-year-old with severe ADHD, had pitched a tantrum of epic proportions when John’s work schedule proved not quite flexible enough to permit John to go haring off to Bangkok at less than a moment’s notice. John had merely shrugged and wished Sherlock a safe trip.

Privately he had contacted Mycroft and demanded a meeting, whereupon he read the British Government the riot act. How could Sherlock’s genius older brother send a man who barely remembered to eat on the best of days and had a troubling propensity for throwing himself into the midst of the most dangerous situations imaginable, without thought or hesitation, possibly send Sherlock to Thailand, the heroin capitol of the world--without adult supervision?

Mycroft had visibly struggled to rein in his amusement as John ranted about his ‘dubious morality,’ ‘questionable and dangerous objectives,’ and ‘downright harebrained schemes.’ At John’s conclusion after he finally wound down, i.e. when John finally had to pause in order to breathe, Mycroft had informed the ex-soldier that Anthea would be accompanying Sherlock the entire time.

“Oh,” John said softly, chagrined, before turning and leaving the other man’s office to the quiet chuckles of the elder Holmes brother.

John didn’t know much about Anthea; she was, for the most part, extremely uncommunicative, surgically attached to her Blackberry, and absolutely impervious to John’s best pick-up lines. He had, however, seen her more than competently handle a semi-automatic assault rifle and enter a burning warehouse during a firefight in the midst of a hostage rescue situation,… after Sherlock had tracked down the radical terrorist cell responsible for kidnapping the PM’s six year-old nephew. That was all he needed to know. He wasn’t certain whether she was MI6 or some sort of covert black ops that didn’t exist on paper, but she certainly had the skill set necessary to keep the world’s only consulting fucktard genius detective alive.

Sherlock and Anthea were still in Bangkok and would be there for several more days, at least, giving them enough time to complete all of the paperwork and give their statements at the embassy. Sherlock’s flight was scheduled to land at Heathrow on Monday evening at 7:41pm.

He wasn’t quite certain when or how Anthea was getting back to England. Privately, he was amazed that Mycroft had managed to do without her for this long; John had secret suspicions that she was a lot more than Mycroft’s personal assistant and Gal Friday. Hell, Mycroft had probably already ordered *The English Electric Lightning back into service to fly her absolutely lethal but cute little arse back to London post haste.

He chuckled aloud at his own musings, missing Sherlock and the ordered chaos he left in his wake. John was anxious to hear the details of how Sherlock had tracked down the mid-level government employee responsible for selling state secrets to the Chinese government. Espionage was outside the usual realm of their cases, and even if he couldn’t write about Sherlock’s exploits in his blog, he was still eager to share in the vicarious thrill of the game with his best friend and wonder in renewed awe at Sherlock’s sheer brilliance.

**********

John tucked the small package into his somewhat baggy bomber style leather jacket as he prepared to leave the clinic, checking his reflection one last time in the bathroom mirror to make sure the outlines didn’t show.

His heart was starting to race with an edgy nervousness, and he couldn’t even begin to contemplate the extra delay the tube ride would create, as his steps turned quickly onto Westchester Street where he knew he could hail a taxi.

For the first time in what seemed like forever, but in reality was more along the lines of six months, John had the flat entirely to himself for a whole weekend. Sherlock’s parents had co-opted Rosie for a week, as they did every few months, in order to spend quality time with their ‘grand-daughter.’ John couldn’t begrudge them.

Given their elder son’s ruthless desire to rule the world, and their younger son’s inability to tolerate…well… _anyone_ really, particularly for the duration required to woo and impregnate a human female, and…probably best **never** to mention the completely demented Eurus, … their chances of acquiring a biological grandchild were probably somewhere very close to negative 100 on the *Kelvin scale.

It worked out well for Rosie, who had no other grandparents or family. John’s own parents, a violent alcoholic and his co-dependent enabler of a wife, had died in a car crash soon after John had been posted to Afghanistan on his first tour. John’s only sibling, his older sister Harry, was so deep into the bottle herself he doubted she would ever find her way out. After one disastrous visit when Rosie was three months old and Harry had shown up to meet her new niece so pissed she couldn’t walk straight, John had severed all ties with his drunken sister. She could do as she pleased with her life, but Rosie didn’t need to see it.

John hit speed dial and called in his order to Speedy’s, a loaded pastrami with oil and vinegar dressing and a bag of salt and vinegar crisps. He was going all out tonight, cholesterol levels be damned. His gourmet sandwich would be paired with a nice pilsner microbrew and an uninterrupted DVD of Casino Royale; he would almost miss Sherlock’s snide remarks and scoffing as the genius derided the physics, the logic—or lack thereof—of the plot, and the inane dialogue. The key word there, of course, was _almost_.

Next, he would light a few candles in his bedroom, take a long, hot shower, spread out a few thick towels to protect the sheets and finally retire to his bed where he would indulge himself repeatedly until he could barely walk on Monday morning.

The next few hours John spent exactly as he had planned, retiring to his bedroom at precisely 10:30pm. Mrs. Hudson’s _herbal soothers_ should have knocked her out completely by now. Normally he used a damp flannel as a gag because he could get very loud while pleasuring himself, and the cloth did double duty as a means to wipe himself up afterwards. But tonight, with Sherlock seven time zones east of Great Britain and with Mrs. Hudson two floors and two herbal soothers away, he would be able to fully indulge himself without fear of discovery.

He hitched his dressing gown a little more snugly around his rapidly chilling nude body. He should have dried off better after the shower, and he was regretting his urgency a bit now. The drafts in the flat in mid-December were nothing to be scoffed at. Nevertheless, he sat down on the edge of his bed and picked up his pen knife. With slightly shaking fingers, he carefully slid the knife under the seams of the brown wrapper and peeled it carefully from the box.

He quickly opened the white box and then the black leatherette case of his new toy, the thing he had paid nearly a week’s salary for, the exorbitant sum of £400: The Real Cock II A.

RD Enterprises was, in reality, Real Doll Incorporated, the maker of the most realistic sex dolls and paraphernalia in the world. The Real Cock II was a marvel of modern engineering, “featuring triple layering and Sil-Slide™ technology sliding outer skin as well as individual floating testicles,” according to the company’s website. Each piece was handmade, hand painted, and had to pass strict quality and safety assurances. They were the most realistic artificial penis’ ever created. Once warmed to body temperature and lubed, most blindfolded people couldn’t differentiate them from a real, erect penis by touch alone.

John had opted for the A or average model, 7” long and a circumference of 4.5.” They made a larger, more popular model, the Real Cock II X, which was 9” long, 6.5” in circumference and 2” in diameter; because of the ‘testicles’ attached at the base, only about 8” was actually insertable…but still. John shuddered visibly at the thought of trying to shove that into his arse.

He had been into prostate play since med school, and while he was experienced enough that he could probably relax enough to enjoy playing with something of that size, the smaller toys massaged his prostate just fine, and he didn’t see any pressing need to make himself sore just to feel that full. Although… he did have to admit to moments of curiosity. What would it be like to be completely filled inside while also being stimulated? Lots of men swore by the bigger toys, and there were certainly a fair number of large toys designed solely for prostate play. Given that, there was, probably—logically—a very good reason for it. And, if he were being completely honest, and no reason not to be in his own head, he was intensely curious about trying it sometime…

But, John had to be realistic…no pun intended. There was only so much he could hide from Sherlock. As it was, he hid his toys under a small, false compartment in his gun safe, which opened to John’s fingerprint only. It had been a logical purchase after their flat had been broken into multiple times, and Mrs. Hudson had insisted after a bored Sherlock had gotten hold of John’s gun and shot a second emoji into the lounge wall one hot Friday afternoon last July. The safe could comfortably hold his gun and a maximum of 3 average sized toys.

He looked woefully at the lovely leatherette case and regretted that he was probably going to have to burn it as well as all of the papers and take the remains down to the pub and stuff all of it into the rubbish bin in order to keep his secret. Well, that was a problem for tomorrow.

Tonight he was going to thoroughly enjoy himself.

He put his Ipod into its Ihome speaker dock, flipped it on and set the playlist to “sexy, smooth jazz.” He covered the small LED lamp with a large square of blue silk creating a muted ambience. The two vanilla sandalwood candles he lit before getting into the shower burned softly in their jars, filling the room with their exotic scent. He quickly plugged in the heating pad, set it to low/warm and placed the large bottle of ID Glide lubricant he had ordered with his toy as well as his new Real Cock II on the pad and folded it over to warm them up to body temperature.

A quick trip downstairs, and he had four bottles of chilled water on ice in the small Igloo cooler he and Sherlock used while on stake outs. He spared a quick, questioning thought as to why Sherlock had _numbered_ the ice cube trays before hurrying back upstairs. He quickly closed the Venetian blinds and pulled the dark navy coloured room darkening curtains closed, cocooning him in his own private little world, before flipping the switch on the small, oil-filled radiator. He shut the bedroom door—pressing hard and listening for the click—otherwise the door had an annoying propensity for easing open during the night and letting the heat out. He then tossed his dressing gown across the rocking chair in the corner and crawled into the snug warmth of his large bed.

Except to use the loo, he had no intentions of leaving his private sanctum until at least noon on Saturday. It was time to get started.

Chapter end notes:

1) The English Electric Lightning or EEL is reportedly the fastest British supersonic jet plane ever built. It’s reported top cruising speed at altitude is Mach 2.27 or 1500mph/2415kph. It was decommissioned in 1988.

2) The *Kelvin Scale created by William Thomson, also known as Baron Kelvin, is an absolute thermodynamic temperature scale using as its null point absolute zero (−273.15° on the Celsius temperature scale aka -459.67° on the Fahrenheit scale ), the temperature at which all thermal motion ceases in the classical description of thermodynamics, i.e. motion at an atomic level ceases. The Kelvin Scale was invented to do away with the need for negative numbers in scientific calculations. Thus the reference to negative 100 degrees on the Kelvin scale in chapter 1 is a scientific impossibility and used solely as a metaphor for an absolutely impossible situation. As a doctor, John would have taken enough chemistry classes to know this and find his analogy amusing in a dorky way.

3) Real Doll Incorporated is an actual business in San Marco, California—I kid you not. I was doing some online research for dildos used by men devoted to prostate orgasms and several of their blogs led me to the RD website. Not sure if AO3 will let me put in a link but it’s RealDolldotcom and the Real Cock II is a very expensive, hand painted, extremely realistic dildo that costs five hundred dollars ($500) in US currency and has a waiting list. I did the conversion to British Pounds Sterling and then tacked on a bit for international postage/shipping and handling expenses and rounded it off to four hundred pounds even. It does not, however, come in the average size that John orders, only the X size referenced in this story. LOL. You can see it by going to the website and clicking on the link for toys and doll accessories. As soon as I saw it, I had to incorporate it somehow into this story. It was just way too much fun to pass up, and so the size kink fetish for this story was born.

4) I also discovered during my research that the majority of men, who blog about/discuss prostate orgasms, indicate that while there is a fair amount of leakage during the stimulation of the prostate itself, the orgasm itself is usually dry. The majority also report that unless there is actual penile or nipple stimulation, they do not achieve more than a partial erection. There is some variation here as a fairly large minority report that they get rock hard and ejaculate copiously until their testicles are empty. The general consensus among all of them is that a prostate orgasm is far more intense and is of a much longer duration than a penile orgasm. A high number also reported that multiple orgasms were possible as well.


	2. And So It Begins

**Chapter 2: And So It Begins**

 

John sighed and closed his eyes, allowing himself to feel the softness of the sheets, the cocooning comfort of the thick memory foam mattress, drifting slowly with the lush notes of Lily Was Here on Candy Dulfer’s alto sax.

As he sank into the moment, he sank into memory, idly remembering the first time he had indulged himself in such a wanton and hedonistic pleasure. Third year of medical school…John had already signed the pre-enlistment papers. It was a spur of the moment decision he did not regret in the slightest. Upon his graduation from medical school, he would begin his residency in a military hospital. As soon as humanly possible, he was getting the hell out of England and away from his drunken family for good.

Not to mention, he had been spurred on by the actions of his recently ex…very ex…girlfriend. Rita Hinton had known from the outset that John planned to join the military, and that if they did become serious, she would have to wait for his enlistment to end.

Deciding that that course of action was unacceptable, and determined to be a doctor’s wife, she had sabotaged John’s condoms and stopped taking her birth control pills. John had felt the small, raised pricks in the condom packet, and miraculously, had the good sense to hit pause in the heat of the moment and really look closely at the packet.

What he saw scared the living hell out of him—tiny needle marks. When confronted, she had broken down and admitted to the sabotage but insisted that it was for his own good. He had seen white, then red, then a few other nameless colors most humans never see because they are quite firmly somewhere deep in the infrared spectrum.

He had ended the relationship instantly and told her in no uncertain terms that if she ever came around claiming that he had fathered a child, she had best be prepared to see him in court and ready to take the child for paternity testing. He had never heard from her again.

It was with that mindset that he had stumbled to class later that afternoon prepared to palpate cancerous masses and enlarged prostates as he completed his module on male reproductive health. Enter his patient, a nineteen year-old university student with red hair and spots who admitted that the university was paying volunteers £20 each to have their prostates examined by the medical students. John inwardly chuckled a bit as to how his tuition monies were being spent.

He had led “Mr. Smith” flawlessly through the script, which eventually necessitated “the patient” disrobing for a prostate exam. John had exited the room to allow his “patient” to change into a gown and returned to find the young man standing by the exam table nervously clutching the gown together in the back. John had reassured the young man, and the first part of the exam had been textbook. “The patient” had leaned over the edge of the examination table and John had gloved, squirted some of the warmed lubricant onto his fingers and gently inserted his index finger.

Because “Mr. Smith” was allegedly on medication for an enlarged prostate, John had to do more palpation than would ordinarily be necessary in order to determine, as closely as possible, the exact size of the prostate and whether the hypothetical medication was effective. John assured his “patient,” who was emitting tiny little “aaaahhhh”s as John palpated, that some unusual sensations were perfectly normal but to let him know immediately if he felt any pain or if he needed John to stop.

It wasn’t until “Mr. Smith” shouted “Oh God, I think I’m gonna come!” and proceeded to do just that, that John found himself in the unusual position of having his left index finger up his patient’s arse while simultaneously grabbing him around the waist with his right arm to keep the man from falling sideways. John managed to lower him to the floor and gently remove his finger all while the young man continued to orgasm.

John’s face was almost literally on fire when his instructor stepped into the room with a glass of ice water for “Mr. Smith” and helped a stuttering John explain how that reaction was completely normal. Up until that point, John had heard that reactions like that did occur on occasion. He’d never actually seen one and really thought it was a load of shite for the most part.

His instructor, who had watched the entire debacle through a small one-way mirror over the sink had praised John’s quick thinking and given him high marks for the exam and preventing harm to his “patient.”

It was a bemused John who had met his mates at the pub that night. Half an hour later John committed an egregious and wanton act of alcohol abuse when he dumped an entire pint of stout into Mike Stamford’s lap.

Apparently John’s patient, dubiously nicknamed _Prostate Pete_ by the med school senior class, signed up every rotation for the in-depth prostate exam. Stamford, with a wicked smile and four shots of Baileys in his gut, had admitted that he’d set John up with old Pete just for laughs.

John had lasted a little over a week. With no girlfriend, and with Rita’s betrayal still stinging like an icy knife in the gut… _ergo no immediate intentions of getting a girlfriend_ , what was a very frustrated and horny young man to do?

Nine days after the incident, a desperate John found himself in his dingy little apartment following a long day on rotation. As the hot water beat down on his tired, aching body, he found his fingertips straying closer and closer to his arse, flirting shyly with the cleft and finally slipping into the snug channel to caress teasingly at his opening.

His breath raspy, and his body tingling, John muttered a “who the hell will ever know” to himself and slipped a soapy fingertip inside the rim, working gently to loosen the tight ring of muscle.

It felt surprisingly good…forbidden…erotic….as he began to slowly work that timid finger in deeper and out again, slowly, fucking himself with increasingly confident strokes as he got the hang of this. The angle was bad, and his fingertip a bit short of his goal. If he was going to do this, he would need to insert his slightly longer middle finger as well.

Remembering the falling young man in the exam room, John shut off the water, grabbed his towel, rolled it up into a tube shape and tossed it on the floor of the bathtub before kneeling down on the padded terrycloth. He squeezed a healthy additional dollop of the organic shower gel onto his fingers and proceeded to press against the outer rectal muscle. This was more difficult. The muscle resisted, but John was persistent—pushing forward and pulling back as he rubbed in small circular motions. Less than a minute later, the muscle relaxed and allowed him to ease two fingers inside.

This was fuller…deeper…naughtier, and as he began the rhythmic fucking motions, his body finally relaxed fully and he began to brush against and then lightly rub his prostate gland.

To say John’s vision went white with pleasure would be an understatement.

His cock swung back and forth between his legs, a little fuller than its normal flaccid state but nowhere near erect. Despite that, he was very, very sure that he was going to come.

His breath was coming in increasingly desperate pants, and it only took three more strokes for lightning to rip through every nerve ending in his body. He pitched forward until his cheek was pressed tightly against the damp, water warmed porcelain of the ancient claw foot bathtub as John came and came, loudly moaning a litany of “Oh God, Oh God, Oh God,” body spasming endlessly, uncontrollably.

Afterwards, John had stood on legs as unsteady as a newborn fawn’s, rinsed himself off and fallen into bed where he slept for nine hours straight.

For years this had been his dirty, shameful secret, and he had used his fingers to pleasure himself only when he was certain that he was alone and wouldn’t be interrupted. Bad enough to get caught with your hand around your dick—men jerked off—that was normal if somewhat embarrassing. Men did not cram two fingers up their arseholes and diddle around until they came. That was not normal, at least not in the military--the last bastion of the proudly strutting, gun toting, knuckle dragging alpha male, and any whisper of gossip that a man liked something in his arse meant he was gay.

The abuse those men suffered often bordered on torture or completely crossed that line and erased it behind them in some instances. John had seen his share.

One incident stood out clearly in his memory. He had had to treat one young man for a perforated colon, ruptured bladder and rectal bleeding after some of the men in his squad somehow reached the questionable determination that he was gay. After tying stocking masks over their faces, they then cornered him in a supply closet and sodomized him repeatedly with a broom handle.

John had been able to stop the bleeding and repair the tearing. However, infection had set in after the young private had been transferred to the base hospital in Kabul, and the poor kid had ended up losing part of his colon; his once promising military career had ended with a medical discharge, and he would have a colostomy bag for the rest of his life. The perpetrators had never been caught.

Any time he had ever thought about asking a partner to finger him, he had remembered that boy and kept his mouth firmly shut.

Mary had been the only one he trusted with his secret. When he had told her, he had been wary of her reaction, but she had surprised him and enthusiastically offered to help. Her help had gradually led them both into trying pegging. John was amazed to discover that many straight men enjoyed having their female partners strap on a dildo harness and fuck them in the arse. There was a whole industry of toys and harnesses and how-to videos that catered to the growing niche market of heterosexual couples who liked, and routinely engaged in, anal penetration of the male partner.

Despite the fact that mores and social conventions seemed to be looser and more accepting than they were just twenty or even ten years ago, he did not want anyone else to know about his proclivities.

Mary had respected that. She had also done her best to make John’s pleasure a priority. As he gradually became more comfortable sharing this aspect of himself with a partner, the orgasms came easier and more intensely. He found he liked it best on his elbows and knees—Mary’s warm, sweat slick body draped over his back, faux-pinned under her slight weight.

He supposed it was inevitable after a few months that he would begin to wonder what it would be like if it were a man behind him. He found the idea not nearly as repulsive as he thought he should, as a completely straight man would.

He supposed it was just as inevitable that sometimes those thoughts would intrude while he was making love with Mary; every now and again he would fantasize that there really was a man behind him, that it was a man’s heavy, angular, solid weight behind him, truly pinning him down, fucking him relentlessly with a thick, hard cock. There would be a set of large hands, elegant but masculine, moonbeam pale, covering his own hands, fingers intertwined, while dark curls brushed along his nape and rosy pink Cupid’s bow lips pressed sweat salt kisses against his spine.

John shuddered as he came back to himself, trying to push his musings into the deeper recesses of his mind as he pushed the bed coverings down and onto the floor, body now overheated as the radiator filled the small room with an almost cloying warmth.

It didn’t take a Ph.D. in psychology to realize that his fantasy partner was Sherlock. John wasn’t certain if that made him bisexual or not; he didn’t want men—he wanted Sherlock.

It was a matter of trust.

He would never trust Sherlock to buy milk, remember to pay the light bill, or think about the rent before turning down a lucrative case…but…conversely there was no one he trusted more. Sherlock would kill for him, die for him….hell, he had already drawn up the papers; if anything ever happened to John, Rosie would be raised by Sherlock.

If he could trust the man with his child, he could most certainly trust the man with his deepest secret, with his body. Unfortunately, it was a body Sherlock had no interest in whatsoever.

The other man truly was married to his work.

Twice John had thought Sherlock had been moved to sample the pleasures of the flesh: once with Irene Adler, but he had been solely intrigued with her mind, and once with Janine, Mary’s friend, but he was simply using her to get to her boss, a notorious blackmailer.

John sighed, closed his eyes and immersed himself deeper in fantasy.

What the hell? After all, Sherlock would never know.

 

Chapter End Notes: The violent physical assault John recalls in this chapter is based on an actual case that occurred in the US. If you want to look it up, google Abner Louima. In 1997 three New York City police officers handcuffed Mr. Louima, beat him, and sodomized him with a broken broomstick handle. Mr. Louima survived his ordeal and sued the city of New York and the police officer’s union. The case settled out of court for $8.7 million, although Mr. Louima has to live the rest of his life with the debilitating physical and psychological after effects of the trauma.


	3. Be Careful What You Wish For

**Chapter 3: Be Careful What You Wish For**

 

As John let his hands play softly over his own body, he closed his eyes and let the fantasy have free reign. As fantasy Sherlock stroked long fingers through his hair and pressed soft, moist kisses to his jaw and neck, John sighed, mimicking the motions as best he could with his own fingers, teasing his flesh until it was overly sensitive and he had begun to shiver with want.

He licked his fingers, getting them nice and wet before using them to tease his nipples, working them in circles, pinching them in a vain effort to simulate a hot, sucking mouth and sharp nibbling teeth.

John was hard, but it didn’t matter. He would ignore his aching, needy cock for now in favor of the more intense full body orgasm he knew was coming. Forcing his fingers down and away from his oh-so-sensitive nipples, he stroked the taut muscles of his abdomen, the skin prickling with suppressed heat at the light tease. He spared a momentary regret that at forty, no matter how much he seemed to exercise, he still retained a layer of fat over what had once been rock hard abs. Overall, though, it wasn’t a bad body at all. He was pleased that regular workouts and chasing around after Sherlock had left him with a well-defined chest, muscular arms, a firm, taut arse, and thick, solid thighs.

But the Sherlock in his fantasy didn’t care about a little bit of extra padding. He teased John’s belly button with a wet tongue and hot kisses, before giving a single, wet lick along John’s stiff cock, swirling his tongue through the leaking pre-cum across the head before pulling away with a last teasing flick of his tongue.

Long, manicured fingers raked their nails delicately over the quivering flesh of John’s thighs. His legs spread wide of their own volition, the need to be filled, to be fucked becoming increasingly urgent. John blindly sent one questing hand toward the nightstand where it mercifully located the warm heating pad. A quick fumble, and he was squirting heated lube across his fingers.

It had been much too long; he was physically aching for this. He couldn’t wait anymore.

He sent one blunt finger to drag teasingly across his perineum, stimulating his eager prostate from the outside. He continued to caress and massage the area until he could feel his prostate throbbing inside, silently begging for relief.

Once his legs had begun shifting restlessly and his hips were pushing down, desperate with need, he squirted more lube and slid the first fingertip teasingly into his opening. John was moaning now. He had intended to take this slower, tease the nerve endings in the rim with tiny circles and barely there penetration, but he hadn’t had a lover since Mary died.

More lube, and the second finger pushed in along the first. John hadn’t done this in a while, but it was like riding a bicycle. His body knew what to do, and soon he was working three fingers in, fucking himself a little roughly, a little urgently.

Since being shot, he no longer had the dexterity in his shoulder to tolerate a prolonged fingering of his prostate. The few times he’d tried, it had begun to ache horribly, which was why he had begun using the toys; twisting around behind his body was even worse. He couldn’t even use a toy on himself when he was on his knees—that was a pleasure he could have only with a partner now. Some days he wished he were more ambidextrous, at least with regard to fine motor skills.

He reached quickly for his new toy, feeling the “skin” slide along the hard shaft, that feeling of smoothly oiled velvet over steel, grinning proudly as he quickly palmed his own, slightly larger shaft—for a bit of relief—not at all for comparison purposes, of course.

John applied a generous amount of lube before tossing it back on the heating pad to keep warm. Slowly he began working the head in, feeling the stretch and burn as the thick cock opened him a little more; this was, by far, the best experience with a dildo he had ever enjoyed. The Real Cock II A was certainly living up to its reputation and worth every pound he’d paid for it, John decided.

John began to alternately sigh and moan as he slowly worked the cock into his body with a steady push/pull motion, pushing in a little more each time than he was withdrawing, as he prolonged the penetration as much as possible. A little over two inches in, and the head made first contact with his prostate.

John let out a soft, inarticulate scream.

His entire body was flushed with pleasure, legs spread wide, knees bent, feet flat on the bed as his abdominal and thigh muscles flexed, pushing against the delicious cock that was piercing him to his core…and it was about to get so much better.

John pushed again, and the thick head stroked firmly across his prostate. His breathing had devolved into nothing more than raspy panting, moans becoming louder as the tempo began to increase. John tried to keep it slow, to prolong this first time, but he was damn near desperate for it at this point. The muscles in his thighs were quivering wildly as he steadily humped the cock inside him, working it faster…

“Sherlock!” John screamed as he neared completion. “Oh God, Sherlock, I need you!”

John forced himself to slow down, to back away from the brink, desperate to come but some part of him even more desperate to make it last. Closing his eyes, he imagined Sherlock over him, slowing the tempo, teasing John, eyes glittering silver blue in the dim light as he eagerly watched John, watched him come undone just for him.

John shivered again and belatedly realized it was a cold draft and not arousal. He had closed the heavy curtains; there shouldn’t be a draft unless the door had opened…but John had shut the door before bed. Sighing loudly he continued to work the Real Cock into his eager, clenching body, but the draft was just sufficient enough of a distraction to put a damper on things—no pun intended. He needed to buy a lock tomorrow.

He glanced over at the doorway and froze in shock. He blinked, but the apparition did not go away.

“Wha…why are you here?” John muttered stupidly still certain this couldn’t be real.

“You called for me,” Sherlock replied, his voice raspy in a deeper register than John had ever heard.

“You’re in Thailand!” John asserted angrily.

“Obviously not,” Sherlock snapped back, irritation doing a very poor job of masking complete and utter shock.

“Oh Jesus,” John muttered, as it finally sank in that his flatmate must have taken an earlier flight and was standing in the doorway at the perfect angle to see a very realistic silicone cock shoved balls deep, literally, into John’s arse.

And it didn’t take a detective to figure out why John had been shouting Sherlock’s name.

He looked around wildly for something to cover himself, but the bed clothes were all on the floor at the foot of the bed, and his dressing gown was across the room on the rocking chair.

His first instinct was to jerk the cock out of his arse and dive for the duvet, but he knew that would fucking hurt like hell. Not only that, but Sherlock would get a real eyeful of John’s stretched open, puffy pink arsehole.

John chanced a glance at Sherlock, resigned. Resigned to what, he didn’t quite know, but resigned nevertheless…only to discover that Sherlock wasn’t looking at him. Well, he was and he wasn’t. He wasn’t looking at John per se, but he was absolutely fixated on the point where the silicone dildo still rested snugly in John’s arse.

Sherlock was dressed in his oldest pair of baggy flannel pajama bottoms and a ratty gray t-shirt. The pajamas were suspiciously not baggy around Sherlock’s groin. In fact they were quite snug and getting the tiniest bit damp.

Never let it be said that John ‘Three Continents’ Watson failed to read a sexual situation correctly, especially when it was to his own advantage.

In for a penny, in for a pound he thought a little hysterically. Eyes fixed firmly on Sherlock, he licked dry lips and began working the very realistic dildo slowly in and out of his arse.

Sherlock’s mouth was half open, and he seemed to be having some significant trouble breathing. His eyes got wider as he watched the slow in and out motion, vanish and appear….vanish and appear…. The tight pink ring of John’s arsehole seeming to suck the dildo lewdly in before pushing it slowly out.

John moaned. He had never considered himself much of an exhibitionist, but this was, by far, the most salacious, dirty, pornographic thing he had ever done.

Sherlock was panting now, eyes still fixated on John’s arse as the other man slowly fucked himself senseless.

Afterwards, John would blame the fact that he had been thinking completely with his arse, literally.

“Do you want me?” he whispered softly, staring at Sherlock’s shocked visage.

Sherlock let out an incoherent, soft “mmmmm” sound that sounded suspiciously like a whine. Sherlock was clearly unable to articulate any particulars at this moment.

“Do you want to fuck me?” John panted out on a soft moan.

Sherlock actually looked at John’s eyes, although John wasn’t seeing much in the way of higher mental functioning there, or basic comprehension for that matter. Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath and nodded.

“Take off your clothes,” John commanded as he continued to rock himself on the dildo, the soft, wet sucking sounds adding to the heated urgency.

Despite the deep breaths, Sherlock was panting again; he jerked the t-shirt roughly over his head, leaving his curls in an even wilder disarray than usual. Fumbling with the drawstring on his pajamas, he finally succeeded in untying the simple bow and pushed impatiently at the garment. On any other day, they would have slid easily from Sherlock’s slim hips…not today. Today they were caught on the other man’s very solid erection.

John giggled softly. Poor Sherlock--the big head and the little head couldn’t seem to function simultaneously, let alone do something so simple as coordinate the removal of his pants.

John stopped giggling when Sherlock angrily shoved the pajama bottoms and his pants down to the floor in one tangled mess.

**Dear God!**

John was going to have the answer to his idle speculation very soon. He was about to find out exactly how the living version of the Real Cock II X was gonna feel in about five minutes, give or take a minute, as Sherlock climbed up onto the bed on his knees, a look of lustful, intent concentration etched deeply into the lines of his face.

“ _Oh fuck me_ ,” John whispered in awed amazement and no small amount of real trepidation.

Sherlock apparently took that as a directive because he was diligently trying to push John’s knees wider as he knelt in between.

“Easy,” John demanded. “Slow down. Let me do it. It’ll hurt if you remove it too quickly,” John said as he put his hand over Sherlock’s at the base of the dildo, the floating testicles shifting nervously in his hand.

Sherlock removed his hand and placed it over John’s, waiting silently as John began working the dildo out, learning the correct motions by feel. John jerked his head toward the nightstand.

“Get the lube. You’ll need to use a lot.” He looked nervously at Sherlock’s very large, very eager cock. “I’m gonna turn over onto my knees and forearms. I’ll let you know what to do. You have to promise me that you’ll follow my instructions to the letter.”

Sherlock licked dry lips and nodded again.

John snapped his fingers twice in front of Sherlock’s glazed eyes causing the detective to jerk back and his eyes to…finally…focus on John’s face.

“I’m serious about this, Sherlock. You’re bigger than anything I’ve ever taken. You can really hurt me if you don’t do what I tell you to do. Understand?” John demanded firmly.

“Yes,” Sherlock croaked, voice rusty from non-use. “Are you sure…the risk?” he murmured, eyes questioning.

John stopped working the dildo, leaving the head inside his very interested arse. “God yes, I want you so much,” John whispered as he finally gave into one of his fantasies, wound his fingers into the curls at Sherlock’s nape and pulled the other man down for a kiss.

Sherlock was awkward, clumsy—clacking teeth and too much tongue, but as John coaxed him -- nibbling and sucking his lips and tongue, Sherlock was soon giving as good as he got, devouring John’s mouth with a hot, moist determination to consume, to burn, to lay claim.

John whimpered as Sherlock seized an opportunity to experiment, grasped the base of the dildo and began working it across John’s prostate in the same slow rhythm John had inadvertently taught him before. He had been on edge now for nearly two hours, and he couldn’t take much more.

“Stop,” John whimpered…. ”Stop….I’m too close.”

Sherlock’s motions ceased as he looked at John curiously. Some awareness slid across John’s consciousness like a liquid caress, but he lost it immediately when Sherlock kissed him again.

“I need to come,” John gasped out at last, “and I wanna do it with you inside me.”

He worked the head of the Real Cock out of his arse, gave Sherlock a quick kiss and turned over onto his belly, pulling his knees up under him as he spread his legs. Sherlock awkwardly maneuvered around John until the other man was situated.

“Got the lube?” John asked on a breathless sigh.

“Yes,” Sherlock blurted at last, when he realized belatedly that John couldn’t see him nod his head.

“Okay, squirt some into me directly and then…”

“How much?” Sherlock interrupted.

“Until it’s leaking out,” John said, erring on the side of caution. “And then coat your cock until it’s dripping off. You can’t use too much.”

He felt the slimy squirt of lube then. Sherlock didn’t stop until it had begun to run down John’s thighs. The next moment he felt pressure as the blunt head of Sherlock’s generously endowed cock tried to penetrate him. John bore down against the pressure, which was abruptly removed.

“John, I don’t think this is going to work. It doesn’t fit,” came a small, sad voice in the dark.

John sighed. “You’re going to have to push like we did with the dildo, push and release, push and release until the muscles relax enough for the head to go in. When the head pops in, stop, okay?”

“Alright.”

The pressure returned. Sherlock began rocking gently. A few minutes later there was a strangled whimper.

“Don’t come. I know this is rubbing the head of your cock, but don’t you dare come!” John moaned loudly.

“Just how do you suggest I prevent it?” Sherlock gasped out petulantly in a choked whisper.

“Squeeze the base of your cock hard if you’re really close. Otherwise, a sharp jerk to your testicles will delay things nicely.”

“Owww!”

John snorted with laughter. Sherlock gave a bit of a harder thrust in retaliation. Both men froze as penetration finally occurred. Sherlock moaned and John felt the other man’s hands tighten reflexively on his hips.

“Stop! I know you wanna thrust hard—Don’t. Just like removing the dildo,” John said softly, “except in reverse; push a tiny bit more in than you pull back. And for God’s sake, keep drizzling lube on your cock as you go.”

Sherlock grunted and complied.

From there, no further instructions were needed.

John found himself relaxing, letting Sherlock take control. The man was focused and methodical at the best of times; having taken John’s warnings very seriously, he was controlled well past the point where John was coherent enough to care.

Although an aroused Sherlock was incapable of articulating his thoughts and mental processes, he was, to some extent, still able to mentally process incoming information and apply limited deductive reasoning. It took the detective less than fifteen seconds to locate John’s prostate. Seven seconds after that, he had set up a rhythm whereby said prostate had become the focus of every inward thrust.

The slick slide of hot flesh against hot flesh, harsh pants and low moans from both men punctuated the stillness, drowning out the low hum of the radiator.

John, too, had set up a rhythm of sorts. He had grabbed a pillow, pressed his face into it, and was alternately moaning and screaming into the goosedown, very certain that no amount of _herbal soothers_ would keep Mrs. Hudson from hearing John’s wailing otherwise.

He breathed only when he absolutely had to.

John reveled in the sensations of Sherlock’s slick flesh sliding against his own, the sparse chest hair rubbing between his shoulder blades, hot breath against his neck, the cage of Sherlock’s strong, wiry arms surrounding him, pinning him down, fucking him in time with John’s own pounding heartbeats.

A soft litany of “fuck me...more, more, harder” fell in a choked demand from his bitten lips as his body learned the hard, steady, absolutely relentless rhythm Sherlock had established, and he matched it--pushed back into it…his good, right arm reaching back to wrap around the rigid muscle at the back of Sherlock’s thigh as his weight fell completely on his curled left forearm and a hopelessly damp, wrinkled pillow. His fingers tightened against Sherlock’s taut hamstring and tried to pull the slick flesh tighter against him.

Sherlock would have bruises tomorrow.

It was raw, and sweaty, and messy. Reality was so much better than fantasy.

John moaned again and pressed his damp face into the pillow, completely saturated now with salty sweat, hot breath and a small trickle of drool. He was over-sensitized, skin on fire, every nerve ending firing wildly and … stretched almost beyond his capacity to breathe.

He had the answer now to his idle musings—to be utterly stuffed, filled and fucked felt absolutely fucking brilliant—the fullness lending a facet to the experience John had never considered. It was a deeper pleasure, more fulfilling, more intense, more all-encompassing than anything he had ever felt before. It was absolutely awe-inspiring amazing! There were no words.

John was vaguely grateful that Sherlock clearly had little or no experience with men; his failure to adhere to the basic etiquette of the reach around pretty much guaranteed it. Any touch to his cock right now would undoubtedly induce a stroke.

He was going to come.

He had been on edge for hours, and regardless of how embarrassing it was going to be to come in under five minutes, it was going to happen—he could already feel the telltale tingles at the base of his spine, spreading out in long, slow, rolling waves deep into his abdomen.

“Gonna come,” John warned in a soft, slurred drawl. “Fuck me through it. Don’t stop til you hafta…”

Sherlock grunted an acknowledgement of sorts and kept thrusting as John’s world dissolved. He howled like a rabid animal as his reality went white, dissolving into tidal waves of pleasure that slammed into his helpless body again and again. The pleasure went on and on and on… John was vaguely aware of his body tightening, milking the massive cock buried balls deep in his arse.

Something raw and animalistic and primal screamed and clawed wildly in resplendent satisfaction deep in John’s hindbrain, and he felt more than heard a long, drawn out shout in Sherlock’s deep baritone, the reverberations heard on his taut skin—his senses so aroused and confused he could smell colors and taste music—the low tenor sax steadily playing its accompaniment to their lovemaking tasted of warm, sticky cinnamon buns; each of these sensations was closely followed by the tightening of hands on his hips and a flood of molten liquid deep inside that made things even more squishy squelchy than they had been before.

Nirvana. John floated in heavenly bliss as the powerful waves of pleasure associated with a prostate orgasm continued to course through his body and wrack his still shuddering frame.

The shock of twelve and a half stone of consulting detective falling dead weight across his back drove John’s knees completely out from underneath him, and he landed flat, completely prone with Sherlock’s semi-hard cock still inside him, the younger man’s weight and position keeping the now softening member in place.

“Geroff…” John mumbled softly, his lungs unable to take in enough oxygen to make it sound any louder than a hoarse whisper.

“I need to rest,” Sherlock murmured back sleepily.

“I need to breathe,” John sniped back, wiggling his shoulders to emphasize the point.

Sighing a most put upon sigh, Sherlock rolled to his left. John felt the wet slide as Sherlock’s flaccid cock was withdrawn, and he took his first sweet, deep gulp of air.

He winced ruefully as he felt the semen and lube sliding down his thighs and felt a passing moment of gratitude for his foresight in laying down the thick towels. John turned over and settled onto his back, quivering, feeling the last of the aftershocks of orgasm coursing through his body; he carefully avoided touching his nipples. He knew from past experience that a single feather-light touch could induce such strong sensations that it made him almost feel as if he were having a seizure.

He sighed as he looked over at his best friend, flat mate, and as of tonight—and maybe just for the night—lover. Sherlock’s eyes glowed an eerie green blue with silver flecks shifting in the irises as he stared steadily at John.

Oh fuck. Where did they go from here?


	4. Aftermath

**Chapter 4: Aftermath**

 

“C’mere,” John murmured softly as he raised his arm and gently beckoned to Sherlock.

“You wish to…cuddle?” Sherlock asked with a suspiciously raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, I do,” John said with a smile. “C’mon…it’s nice, and…well…think of it as additional data to analyze later,” John cajoled softly.

Sherlock heaved another put upon sigh. “Very well,” he said, giving in with ill grace, looking testily from John’s shoulder down to the end of the bed—a very short distance from where John was lying sprawled in the middle, “but I refuse to contort myself into a small pretzel to do so,” he said with an irritated frown as he awkwardly held his arms open for John to lie against him.

John chuckled with amusement and scooted up and into the waiting arms. He had another, ulterior motive for wanting to cuddle. They needed to talk, and he didn’t think he could have this conversation looking Sherlock in the eyes. He laid his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, gazing at the pale expanse of his chest as it rose and fell with each breath and readied himself for … something.

“What did this mean…,” John began, but paused halfway through the question as that niggling thing that had been trying to penetrate his brain all night finally clicked into place. “Oh my God. You were a virgin,” John gasped in shock.

Sherlock stiffened instantly, but John ignored it.

“ _Oh my fucking God_ ,” John repeated with some extra profanity for emphasis. “I thought you’d just never been with a man, but you’d never been with anyone, had you?” John murmured, certain he was right.

The pieces began to slot into place. Sherlock needing to follow John’s lead regarding how to kiss, though he did catch on quickly as Sherlock was wont to do. He didn’t know how to delay an orgasm. Asking how much lube to use when any somewhat experienced man with a prick of that size would know to use most of the fucking bottle. Mycroft and The Woman hadn’t been taunting Sherlock; they’d been _defining_ him. **Virgin**.

Sherlock snorted. “What a ridiculous societal construct—the entire concept of virginity,” and Sherlock’s voice dripped scathing venom. “I had neither more nor less value as a human being because I lacked carnal knowledge of another person,” Sherlock spat derisively.

“It isn’t about value,” John hastened to explain before Sherlock got off onto a tirade there would be no coming back from. “It’s about taking advantage…” John began.

“I realize that you don’t believe I can feed myself, but I am an adult, Watson….John,” Sherlock amended in consideration of the fact that they had just shared a very intimate moment. “I realize it may have escaped your notice at the time, particularly given the fact that I placed your odds of going into cardiac arrest at approximately 15%, but I did have a rather satisfying orgasm myself.”

“Yeah, I was aware of that, actually, and even if I’d missed it, I’m sure the semen currently dripping out of my arsehole would have clued me in,” John replied sarcastically.

Sherlock flushed a spectacular shade of vermilion. Well, the iceman thaweth…

“I just mean that I made it all about me….how fast, how hard, everything was about what I wanted. No foreplay for you…nothing. I feel a bit like I used you even though I’m not sure how else it could have gone—for safety’s sake, mind you…unless we’d done something else, something not involving penetration.”

“Perhaps next time it can be all about me,” Sherlock murmured tiredly, jet lag catching up with him at last, as his hand stroked idly through the thick mat of John’s still mostly blond chest hair.

“Do you want there to be a next time, Sherlock?” John asked carefully.

“Why wouldn’t I? This did turn out rather well,” Sherlock admitted, a questioning frown beginning to form.

“So, just sex?” John asked carefully.

“What else?” Sherlock replied sincerely. “Surely you aren’t suggesting some sort of relationship?”

“And what if I were...?” John countered tightly.

“Because then I would seriously have to question your sanity. You know what I’m like, John. I won’t remember your birthday, or anniversaries. I’ll forget to buy milk and bread. I’ll sulk and whinge and will, undoubtedly, shoot a new face into the wall the next time I’m bored. I’ll walk away when you’re talking and in a strop; I’ll leave you to hare off on my own to chase questionable leads, and the pancreas in the refrigerator is non-negotiable as are the fecal samples in the ice cube trays.”

“There’s shite in the ice trays!?” John shouted, sitting up to look at a rather smug looking Sherlock.

He looked forlornly at the cooler containing the bottled water on ice. Sighing, John scrubbed his hands over his face tiredly. He didn’t want to, but he needed to have the rest of this conversation face to face.

Sherlock’s eyes continued to glitter, and in the dark he looked like a half-wild Fae thing, not of this world. He was both beautiful and maddening.

“Look, Sherlock… I trust you more than anyone else in the world. You may not need a relationship, but would you want one…with me? I’ve lived with you for how many years? I know who you are, your moods, your experiments…and the only thing I’ll ever ask is something I would insist upon whether we were in a relationship or not—You cannot ever do anything that would place Rosie in jeopardy…that’s all I want.”

“John,….” Sherlock began but the older man ruthlessly cut him off.

“Just let me finish. Alright?”

At Sherlock’s nod, John continued. “I turned forty my last birthday, and I know you forgot,” John said tersely as he held up a hand forestalling Sherlock’s interruption.

Sherlock settled back and crossed his arms over his chest, sulky.

“I don’t care that you forgot. My point is…half of my life is over, and I don’t want to spend the last half of it alone. Yeah, I have our friendship, and Rosie, and my job, and The Work, but I need more than that. I need a lover and a partner. I could love you…if I let myself…hell, I already desire you. So, it’s really up to you. I know I’m not much to look at, too much gray in the hair, a little spare tyre starting ‘round the middle, and I’ll never be your intellectual equal. But…well…you know me—you know what you’d be getting probably better than I do. Can you love me, Sherlock? Do you want me?”

“Love…caring is not an advantage,” Sherlock replied coldly.

“Bollocks!” John shouted. “That’s Mycroft talking—not you.”

“And what if he’s right?” Sherlock countered. “He is…”

“He’s what?” John replied snidely…”Smarter than you?”

Sherlock winced but didn’t deny it.

“That’s what he wants you to think, what he’s always wanted you to think. It’s not true, and I can prove it.”

Sherlock’s head snapped to attention, eyes glittering blackly with the lamp light framed behind him, interest now laser focused.

“Do you remember Sherrinford? Think about it. Despite the fact that Mycroft had been visiting Eurus for years, knows her better than any other human being alive, it was you who solved all of her puzzles—every single one of them without one ounce of input from Mycroft. And at the end, it was you who figured out that the plane of doomed passengers didn’t exist. It was you who figured out the puzzle of the gravestone dates and Eurus’ riddle from almost 25 years ago. Mycroft had the same information you had when your best friend disappeared all those years ago. He had no emotional connection to Victor Trevor, he’s a genius, and he’s seven years older than you—and despite his supposed advantage of not caring, he didn’t figure it out—never figured it out. You did. When time was running out for me, my death an almost virtual certainty, you figured it out…my best friend—the person who cares about me more than anyone else. So, forgive me if I fail to bow at the feet of the almighty logical, emotionless Mycroft. From where I’m sitting…and currently breathing…caring is the greatest advantage of all. It makes human beings try harder…do better…. be better,” John finished on an emphatic soft huff, completely emotionally drained.

John pushed himself out of bed and winced. Oh, he’d be feeling the effects of Sherlock’s version of the Real Cock II X for days; he felt a grin playing on his lips—it had been totally worth it, though.

A quick trip to the loo, and he returned to find Sherlock sitting upright, leaning gracefully against the headboard deep in his mind palace.

John shut off the heating pad, turned down the radiator, blew out the candles, tossed the damp towels into the corner and pulled the duvet up around himself and Sherlock, finally flicking off the lamp. He left the smooth jazz on repeat and let the soft strains of a piano lull him to sleep.

John was awakened some hours later as Sherlock settled into a laying position next to him and grasped his hand, linking their fingers, his thumb rubbing idly across the backs of John’s knuckles.

“John?” Sherlock whispered into the dark.

“Hmmmm???” John murmured sleepily.

“I’ve thought about what you said.”

“Mmmmhmmm…and?” John mumbled quietly.

After a long pause, Sherlock managed a strangled “Yes.”

John sighed. If there was such a thing as reincarnation and karma, he wanted to be a fucktard genius detective in his next life; maybe then he could look back during a past life regression session on his time spent with Sherlock and figure out half of what went on in that magnificent brain.

“Yes what, love?” John murmured, drifting back into sleep.

“Yes, I’d like to try the … _relationship_.” Sherlock spat the word out like it tasted rancid in his mouth, but the tender squeeze to John’s hand and Sherlock’s awkward attempt to spoon the other man disabused John of any notion that Sherlock didn’t really want this.

“But if you ever call me Love, or Sherly, or Muffin or anything other than my name in public, even Mycroft won’t be able to find the body. Are we clear?”

John smirked. “Yes, William.”

Sherlock chuckled. “I wouldn’t even attempt this with anyone else, but you are interesting, at the very least. I think this could work,” Sherlock murmured with a faint touch of surprise in his voice, as if the thought had only just occurred to him.

“I think so too,” John whispered his quiet agreement as he patted Sherlock’s hand before settling it across his hip.

Sherlock gave a reassuring squeeze. “What happens now? _Precisely_ how does this work?” Sherlock asked, fighting back a yawn.

“However we want it to,” John replied. “We’ll start working it out in the morning, right after you go to Tesco’s and get us new ice trays,” John said quietly, but Sherlock was already asleep, dreaming the dreams of the innocent and the mad…and the loved.

 

_The End….or perhaps it’s just the beginning._


End file.
